Chapter 4: The Judas Kiss
I unlocked the front door of our shared apartment the next afternoon, armed with every single ounce of supernatural patience I usually reserved for calming down violently unruly classrooms.
Derek was already in the living room. His designer duffel bag was tossed carelessly onto the rug, and he was unzipping it with exaggerated, theatrical sighs of exhaustion. When he heard my keys jingle, he turned, instantly deploying that practiced, boyish grin that had effectively charmed me into submission for three years.
“God, Em, you wouldn’t believe how absolutely brutal that seminar was,” he groaned, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around my waist.
He pressed a lingering, warm kiss to my temple. I had to force every muscle in my body not to violently recoil. His skin felt like acid against mine. But worse than his touch was the smell. Beneath the faint, sterile scent of hotel soap, there it was: the undeniable, lingering top notes of bergamot and freesia. Clara’s signature perfume, clinging to his collar like a neon sign.
“Sixteen straight hours of logistics conferences and supply chain modules,” he continued, pulling back to look into my eyes with a flawless mask of sincerity. “I barely had five minutes to check my phone. I missed you so much, babe.”
I dug my fingernails into my own palms until crescent moons of pain registered in my brain, grounding me.
“I’m so sorry, sweetie,” I replied, forcing my voice into an even, soothing, melodic rhythm as I casually turned away to hang my jacket in the closet. “You just work way too hard for our future. You need to relax.”
Right on absolute, horrifying cue, my phone lit up on the kitchen island. A text message. It was Clara.
Hey, gorgeous bride-to-be! Just landed back from Portland. Mom’s feeling so much better, thank god. I cannot wait to celebrate you and Derek tonight at the Grand View. We are going to make you look absolutely stunning tonight. Love you to the moon!
I stared at the glowing pixels. A small, hysterical laugh threatened to bubble up my throat. The sheer, pathological synchronization of their lies was almost impressive. With terrifyingly steady fingers, I typed back a red heart emoji and hit send.
The trap was officially set.
Nolan had moved with the lethal efficiency of a ghost behind the scenes. Under the flawless guise of a lavish surprise welcome party for his own return to American soil, he had contacted the venue management and aggressively upgraded our modest private dining reservation to the Grand View’s sprawling, opulent grand ballroom.
More importantly, he had personally dispatched couriered, formal invitations to the absolute upper echelon of their professional lives. Mr. Sterling, Derek’s CEO at Apex Logistics, the entire regional executive board, and the managing partners of Clara’s prime corporate retainers had all been promised an exclusive networking mixer, complete with a celebratory family announcement regarding the upcoming nuptials.
For the rest of the afternoon, Derek strutted around the apartment, obsessing over which silver cufflinks to wear. He was practically glowing, radiating a smug, electric energy at the prospect of rubbing shoulders with Nolan’s elite financial circle. He genuinely believed he had arrived. He thought tonight was the night he secured his legacy.
He had absolutely no idea the stage was meticulously set not for his coronation, but for his execution.
